Roses
by Keraha
Summary: Alicia Hughes lives in a house were roses never die. Futurefic, written back when 23 or so episodes were out.


**Title:** Roses   
**Author:** Keraha   
**Warnings:** Nothing. Set in the future, no spoilers (character death though). Alicia-centric.   
**Notes:** I wrote this a while ago, but never got around to posting it here. I wrote it when 23(?) episodes of FMA were out, so things that happen later weren't really taken into consideration. Consider it an AU or something of the like.

* * *

Alicia Hughes lives in a house where roses never die.  
  
Ever since she was young, her mother had taken flowers from events and dried them; "to preserve memories," her mother had explained.  
  
On the kitchen table, there are a dozen black roses, dried until the deep red of their petals crinkled into a morose purple-black. Her mother had told her, "These are the flowers that your father gave me. Whenever he came home with these, he would take me out to dinner. He thought that the red was classy." She smiled, and her eyes crinkled into the folds of aging skin. "He didn't realize that they were called black roses; he would just pick them out because they looked elegant. Super roses." Gracia Hughes had leaned over and taken one out, her pale fingers gently cradling the brittle rose stem. "Look, Alicia," she whispered, crouching down. "Your father even took off all the thorns for me."  
  
Alicia remembers staring at the flowers; her eyes tracing the small marks where the thorns would be. They were scattered up and down the length of the stem, looking like little diamonds of paler green.  
  
"He didn't want to see me get hurt, even with things like these." Gracia stood up, one hand pressed against her back. She put the rose back, shuffling the others until they settled back to where they were before. The roses were indented where they had been pressed together for so long.   
  
"But Papa--"  
  
"And these," Gracia had said, pointing to a small bunch of white spray roses, "are from the time your father first went out with me. He was so terribly nervous." She laughed. "Roy told me later that he had stayed at the florist's for several hours, trying to pick out the perfect flowers without being too expensive. We're lucky the florist was romantic, I'm told. She helped him get these flowers and even gave him a discount."  
  
Alicia was silent.  
  
"When are you going to find a boyfriend?" Gracia had asked, ruffling her hair. "Then he can buy you flowers, and you can keep them, just like me."  
  
Alicia smiled at her, lips slightly crooked. "Not yet, mama. But soon."  
  
And Gracia smiled back, hands already pointing to the small vase of slender flowers. "These flowers are the ones that your father gave me when I had you. He said that if he gave me enough, then you would grow up to be like them. Strong, beautiful, and a happy spot in anyone's world."  
  
When Alicia was young, she loved to be led through the house, being told stories of all the roses. If her mother missed some on her rounds, Alicia would point and say, "Tell me about those, Mama. Tell me what happened then."  
  
Her mother would laugh, eyes shining. "Oh, Alicia, you choose the best flowers for me to remember!" And her eyes focused on the flowers, she would weave memories. Alicia had always stood entranced, mouth open just a little at the proof of her father's love.  
  
But now, so many years later, her mother was dying, and it was Alicia's turn to tell the stories. She could remember each flower, each fragile blossom, and the memories that they stirred up.  
  
"Alicia," Gracia says, voice thin. "Oh, tell me about those. They're beautiful." She points to an elaborate vase across the room on the bookshelf, overflowing with black roses.  
  
"Mama, you choose the best flowers for me to remember," Alicia says, beaming. "Those were--" She stops.  
  
"Yes, Alicia?" Gracia waits for the story, wanting to hear about another memory that she has forgotten.  
  
"Those were--" She looks at Gracia, looks at the woman staring up at her with a child's wonder. After Gracia's brow begins to furrow in confusion, Alicia says haltingly, "Those were from when-- from your wedding. Papa gave them to you, and he was crying and being romantic and he said that he wanted you to know that he loved you, forever and that he would never, ever leave you." She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to keep back the tears. "Papa said that he would never leave you, not even death could stop his love."  
  
The bed shifts, just a little, as Gracia leans up and kisses her forehead. "And he never did, Alicia." She settles back in her bed, then whispers, "Oh, just one more for today." She points to a single rose stuck in an elegant crystal vase. "Tell me about that one."  
  
And Alicia does.  
  
It is the last ones she will ever tell her mother about, and she knows this. Alicia weaves bits and pieces of her own past into a story grander than Gracia ever told her. It takes a long time, and by the end, they are both crying.  
  
Gracia smiles, just a little bit, and closes her eyes. "Oh, I remember, Alicia... I remember..." And her breath eases out of her in a sigh.   
  
Alicia weeps.  
  
Her mother has never asked about that flower before, and she has never told her stories about it. She only knows the truth behind them because she asked her Uncle Roy.  
  
"It's from your father's funeral, Alicia," he had said. And neither of them ever brought it up again.  
  
--  
  
Alicia Hughes lives in a house were roses never die. She sits in the family room, eyes drifting from flower to flower to flower.  
  
"Oh, tell me about those," she whispers.  
  
But this time, no one answers.


End file.
